


Bramble and the Pomegranate

by EmpressCirque



Category: Prince of Persia - All Media Types, Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time (Video Games), Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Male Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Character Study, Dysfunctional Family, Everyone is Bisexual, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mentions of Dark Prince/Farah/Prince, Mentions of Prince/Original Male Character(s), Mythology - Freeform, Nightmares, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Persian Mythology - Freeform, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Serious Injuries, Slow Burn, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2019-07-04 05:37:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15834822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmpressCirque/pseuds/EmpressCirque
Summary: He is not a hero; he is not even a man. Hate and anger has bred a monster, but compassion can lead to growth. The Dark Prince finds that freedom does not come easy and life comes at a cost. There is a balance that cannot be broken - some things cannot be erased. The Sands of Time cannot be undone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being alive is a wonderful feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter TWs: Mentions of death, sun poisoning, general injuries.

Breathing is an entirely new sensation. The feeling of air being pulled in and pushed out of the chest, to and from the nostrils, comes so naturally that one would hardly even notice it. It is a common, insignificant experience, but one he is not accustomed to. His first breaths are filled with burning sands that rage in his throat, tearing into the flesh with what feels like a million shards of glass. The pain is like nothing he has ever felt and he feels weak. Regardless, the pain, this new sensation, is welcomed gratefully and he slips out from under the sands with clawing hands, digging into the ground and grasping for freedom.

The sun beats down onto his back, baking it under the heat and threatening to crack apart the new flesh. His body feels as if there is a vice squeezing around him, drawing his flesh against him so tightly that he fears he may collapse under the pressure.

This unimaginable torture though? This is good.

It means he is alive. Back in the land of the living, as it were, and this is an opportunity he intends to enjoy to its fullest extent. An enjoyment that can only be truly fulfilled once he is seated at his rightful place on the throne of Persia, while a certain false prince lays before him, bloodied and broken; dead, preferably.

Finally, with far more effort than one may expect, he pushes himself free from the blanket of sand that rests upon his back and shoulders. The shimmering of the sand obstructs the scenery around him for a moment – the same moment he takes to gasp for another lungful of fresh air—before once more settling itself below him. Falling forward, his palms rest flat on the ground, keeping him steady as he attempts to take in the variety of new sensations wracking his body.

Sand continues to slide down his shoulders and stick to the wetness of his skin; the feeling tickles him and his sides quake as the coarse powder runs across him. He stirs again and below him his hands and knees feel the pinpricks of pain as the small rocks cut into his flesh. After a moment, he notices how dry his throat is, how hard it is to take each new breath, and how much the pain is growing by the second.

He wonders if this is what it feels like to die.

He tries to think back to the sensations he had only known for fleeting moments in a time that seemed to have taken place millennia ago, sensations that had not been ones for him to experience, but those he had felt the ghosts of when his royal host had been careless. From what little he knows of these fragile forms, those feelings had been nothing like those that he felt now.

He refuses to return to the darkness. He refuses to know death again.

As he pushes himself up and onto his legs, his muscles scream for mercy and his heart—he could almost laugh at the very notion that _he_ has a heart—pounds with a force that makes him worry it shall burst from his ribs and shrivel up on the hot sand that surrounds him. He steps forward. One foot, then the other, and then the first foot again. So it repeats. He walks forward, trusting his new form to guide him to shelter, towards anything that will ease his pains, and tries his best not to think about what will happen to him should that trust be misplaced.

When evening arrives, he finds himself once more buried beneath the dirt. The air has begun to cool, but his skin burns as if the sun has settled itself within it. Now, exhaustion has beaten his stubbornness and he fears that he shall meet oblivion so soon after some foolish god seems to have granted him this generous gift.

He is barely conscious when a passing trader drags him from the sands and pours water down his throat. He is unable to register the irony that the very thing he hates is also what saves his life in one short moment. His world swirls around him as the unknown man talks and questions, tries to get some sort of response out of the life he has just saved. He is unconscious by the time they are through the gates of Babylon.

In what seems to be a twist of fate, the Dark Prince is brought into the gates of the great city he intends to conquer and destroy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, remember that 60 chapter Prince of Persia fic I promised about a year ago? This is probably the shortest chapter in the entire thing. Hope you enjoy!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Awakenings, meetings, and a new game begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter TWs: General injuries, sun poisoning, hinting threats of violence against women, minor swearing.

The Dark Prince awakens to the sound of hushed whispers and a weight, cool and heavy, against his back. Panic grips him in an instant and he presses his hands into the surface beneath him, shoving the weight of his body upwards, only to hiss and curse as the sensation of molten rock courses down his flesh. It takes several seconds of sporadic breaths that cause his chest to heave up and down until he is able to reach back with a quaking hand and grasp onto the fabric that clings to him. He pulls, freeing himself from the unpleasant, damp sensation and hurling the offending rag across the room, causing his shoulders to scream in protest as the burning sensation returns with vigor.

Another shove of his hands brings him to his feet for only a moment before his knees buckle under his own weight and he crashes against the wall nearest to him, digging his nails into the rotting wood in a vein attempt to keep himself standing. Splinters dig into his already tender flesh, working their way into him and peeling apart his already torn and cooked form. He curses again, louder this time, and closes his eyes firmly, trying to will away his senses.

He finds that it does not work.

Gathering what wits he can, his ears catch the sound of a door being hurriedly opened and a concerned gasp. Another passes and he feels himself being pulled, guided back to what he now realizes had been a bed, by slender fingertips that seem to radiate with the sensation of the desert nights themselves. The figure has him back in the position he began in within seconds and the weighted sensation of the cloth has been returned to his wounded back – he finds the dampness is more preferable to the burning sting present only moments ago, much to his annoyance.

“Only a fool would rise in your condition.” When he does not answer, the voice continues, “You are safe here, stranger. My word is my honor.”

Slowly, he turns his gaze to meet the voice’s own, teeth bared in something of an attempt to ward off further poking and prodding of his already sore body. In response, the figure – a young woman—removes her hands from the source of his misery, instead opting to return his look with one of apathy. “The pain will stop if you allow me to help you.”

She moves carefully, as though she is aware of the danger he could pose, reaching out and smoothing down the ripples of fabric against him. He grunts in response, slowly resting his head against the soft pillow beneath him, watching as she moves to grab a pitcher that rests on the table near them. He grunts again, watching as she pours the liquid onto a rag, this time curling his lips in turn. “No. Another way.”

The woman pauses, as if she is surprised that he can speak. “It will ease your—” 

“Another. Way.” He repeats the words, slower, as if she might not have understood him the first time. He hears the anger creep into his voice, sees her eyes spark with a glint of annoyance (the same annoyance he recognizes from the gaze a certain princess) before she relents, nodding and setting aside the liquid. There is a distinct _thunk_ as the clay hits the wood and a shiver works its way down his spine as the liquid inside sloshes about in an vile manner; when he notices her perplexed gaze, he turns his head away, the tip of his nose pressing against the warm stone of the wall next to him.

The room is silent, no sound piercing through the air that seems to have thickened between them, and he can feel her eyes on him. Just as quick as it had begun, though, it ceases, and instead is pierced by the wooden legs of her chair sliding against the uneven flooring.

“Are you as opposed to plants as you are milk?”

“Milk?” He turns back slightly, eyeing the woman with suspicion. He says nothing, waiting for her answer, but when she does not offer one, he nods, “Whatever shrub it is will do fine.”

He turns his face her fully now to watch her as she begins to trim the leaves off of a green plant with quick, clean slices of a small blade. From where he rests, he can see something ooze from the wounds, sticking to the blade and then snapping away as she rests the amputated segments onto a thin, white linen nearby. When she finishes, she brings them to him, setting them next to the pitcher and resting back into her seat.

“You are lucky Babak and his men found you when they did,” she murmurs, slowly removing the fabric from his back. “Had they not been passing by, the night would have surely taken you.”

“Lucky indeed. Had they come any sooner, I might not have felt the warmth of the sun blistering my back any longer! What a shame that might have been.” He hisses, wincing as the girl begins to rub the tacky contents of the plant onto his wounded form.

“Are you always so grateful when the Divine spares you?” She leans forward, causing her off-black locks to feather against his sides, forcing him to suck in a breath as she continues pressing her fingers delicately against his skin.

“If I have been spared, it was not by some Divine being.”

She hums softly, wiping the remaining unused innards of the plant from her hands onto the cloth they had previously occupied. Once she is satisfied, she settles her gaze to his and raises a thin brow at him. Her lips twitch, the ghost of a smile threatening to stretch across them as he watches her attempt to unravel the mystery of his person.

As she stands, carefully gathering the husks that once contained the relief resting upon his back, he notes how her honey-colored gaze lingers upon him. Another shiver works its way down his back and he briefly considers the thought that this girl might recognize him. Slowly, with shaking fingers, he reaches up and brings them to rest upon his cheek, silently confirming that this body bares no resemblance to his true form.

“What?” He narrows his eyes when she continues to stare. “What are you looking at?”

She blinks, her eyes moving away from him – he relaxes, the tension in his body dissipating within seconds. As it does, she answers, “I have never seen someone so young with hair like yours.”

Quickly, his hands move from their position upon his face to his head, grasping at the strands upon it. He is surprised to find that she is right in her observation. His hair, bleached white as bones left for too long in the sun, stands out brightly against his skin. He chuckles, allowing his fingers to untangle themselves before looking at her with a smirk. “I suppose you have not.”

The pads of her feet carry her away from him after some time – during which he suspects she has continued to watch him—and she deposits the waste outside, allowing a short-lived breeze to pass through the open doorway until she once more secures it closed. In that brief moment, he is able to hear the sounds outside of the dimly lit walls he has been confined to: horses, people talking, shouting, children playing, carts passing by with their wheels squeaking as they turn.

As she finishes latching the door closed, he cannot help but to question, “What city is this?”

“Babylon,” she responds and he feels the heart in his chest skip several beats as the knowledge she has granted him rapidly rushes over him as a wave might crash against a ship at sea. “Why are you smiling like that?”

He clears his throat, swallowing back the disconcerting, triumphant grin that had formed on his face. In a moment, he turns his giddiness into a calm smile, though he still feels a fire behind his eyes. “Forgive me. It has been far too long since I have been within this city’s walls. I am simply excited to return home after all this time.”

She seems satisfied by his answer and if she has sensed any malicious intent behind his words, she does not make it known. Which has not been a lie, he notes, though there would be no guilt to eat at his conscious had it been one. She nods – a quick, single motion confirming that she accepts his explanation—before turning her attention to a closed window without prying into his eagerness further.

“Do you often save the lives of strange men, woman?” he says, something of a bored tone teetering on the edge of his tongue. “You have let me into your home and I see no husband to protect you.”

Her body stiffens, the skin of her knuckles turning pale as she squeezes the edges of the wooden shutters. He chuckles, savoring the response her body provides, watching the smallest hints of fear course through her form. He continues, “I could be a dangerous—“

“I am no stranger to defending my life from the likes of those who wish to tear me asunder,” she interrupts, slamming open the window shutters and turning, her eyes boring into him with a silent fury (now, he quietly wonders how he did not notice the scar that rakes its way across the right side of her face earlier). “I have just saved your life, stranger, and I can just as easily send you back to hell’s doorstep. So if you truly wish to continue on with your vague threats, by all means do… but know that while you may be a cunning cat, I am not the timid mouse that will fill your empty belly.”

He frowns, his teeth clenching together so tightly that he feels as though the danger of fracturing apart his skull is imminent. Despite the noises the drift through the now open window, he finds the silence between them is truly deafening and only releases the pressure from himself once the ringing in his ears becomes too much to bear. Finally, he clicks his tongue once and allows a mock smile to form upon his lips. “Do you have a name then? Or would calling you mouse suffice?”

“Azar.” She pauses, the hard line that had been drawn upon her lips slowly relaxing with the rest of her form. “And what do I call you? Are you simply stranger, or do you prefer to be called a cat? Perhaps the roll of bastard suits you better?”

He grins at that. “My, my, such language from your feminine mouth. Tell me, do you always speak so harshly, or am I just special?”

“I asked you a question. Now, answer me or I may lose my patience.” Her eyes have narrowed now, the fire burning behind them growing in size with each passing second. He finds that this only amuses him more.

“It would appear we have already stepped past the threshold that secured your patience, woman.” He chuckles as her fingertips twitch and her eyes flare up with annoyance. “Forgive me. I meant to say: we have already stepped past the threshold that secured your patience, _Azar_. A simple mistake as I have only just learned what I should call you after all.”

“Are you always so rude, or am I just special?”

“I like to refer to myself as clever, but if you prefer the term… who am I to stop you?”

“You are dodging my question,” she counters, crossing her arms and pressing all her weight against one foot, cocking her left hip out (again he is reminded of a certain princess). “Your name?”

She has cornered him, announced to him that she knows of his little game, and left him without much of an escape route. A name, something so simple and yet something he has never been given. He very well cannot tell her he has no name, for the idea itself is absurd. He briefly considers giving her the name of the Prince, but after a moment of thought, decides it best to distance himself from the royal as much as possible for the time being. After several seconds that contain her gaze growing ever more suspicious, he answers, “How do I know you will not use my name in one of your rituals? A name is very powerful and I do not know your true intentions as of yet.”

She barks out a laugh. “You think me a witch?”

“You have your potions sitting throughout this room!” He motions to the pitcher that still rests near him. “How do I know that you do not have more nefarious intentions?”

“I already told you, the pitcher contains milk. The sun has poisoned you and this would have ease what damage has been done, yet you refused,” she argued and he finds himself surprised that she has not begun screaming at his nonsense. “Are you so scared of dark magic then? The plants themselves could be deadly and yet you allowed their use!”

“I have seen them before. It is of no danger to me, but what you have mixed inside the milk…” He trails off, motioning with a single finger to his skull and tapping lightly. “But, I hear that witches enjoy games—“

“Everyone enjoys games, stranger,” she interrupts him; something akin to amusement slowly mixing itself into the frustration that still lingers on her features. Once more, the tension from the threat of exposure slowly dissipates as she ceases to pry further.

“I suppose that is true, but do not interrupt me,” he confirms, taking the briefest of seconds to appear as though he is gathering up his previous thoughts. “If you are so keen to know what to call me, then you must simply guess it.”

Another rise of her slender eyebrow as she scoffs, “Are you a child? Withholding what I should call you for what purpose other than infantile amusement? There are a million names you could be called; it would be impossible to narrow down such a massive list.”

“If you are not up to the challenge—“

“Silence, you insufferable—“

“Bastard?” he chimes in, looking amused. He finds himself nearly thrown into a fit of laughter when she sucks in a breath sharp enough for him to hear. The game has yet to even begin and already he discovers he is greatly amused by her irritation alone.

“Insufferable _rat_.” Her teeth remain tightly clenched together as she hisses the response. “I’ll play your inane game if only because I will best you at it. Perhaps when I am done, I’ll perform a spell on the prize, just for you!”

Carefully, he moves a hand up in a gesture of defeat, “Now, now, there is no need for such vicious threats between us. Can we not be civil?”

She chokes back a laugh, anger still evident in her features, until finally turning away from him sharply. “I’ll be very civil, so long as you afford me the same courtesy.”

He snorts in response, though Azar says nothing to express any annoyance at his behavior and instead sets another jug of unknown liquid beside him. His eyes narrow dangerously at the object, a huff pushing past his lips as he drops his head unceremoniously back onto the cool fabric beneath him. “What is _that_?”

“Water. Drink up; unless you truly do long for death’s embrace that is,” she states, as he grinds his teeth together. “I did not poison it, you superstitious fool. I would not waste my time caring for you all of yesterday if I had.”

He slowly turns his gaze to her, relaxing his body to the best of his ability. His throat burns, he notes, and a small part of him knows that this new body must drink to survive, but the very thought of the liquid sitting inside of him brings the taste of bile to his tongue. There is no choice, not when the threat of death looms over him. With a heavy sigh, he pushes himself up onto his elbows before reaching out and grasping onto the handle. Carefully he guides the jug to his mouth and even more carefully he swallows.

The relief is instantaneous. All at once, his body cools and the burning in his throat numbs. He is surprised to find that the trickles of pain that remained on his wounded back even seem to fade slightly more. How funny, he thinks, that the very thing that should banish him has brought him such pleasure. With greedy, ravenous mouthfuls he finishes the contents inside, gasping for air and slamming the empty vessel aside.

“There,” he pants, trying to ignore the shaking of his body. “There, I have finished it.”

Azar is watching him again, her brow furrowed in a funny way, but she makes no comment, only takes the empty container in her hands. “I’ll bring you more soon then. For now though, you should rest.”

“You do like to order me around, don’t you, woman?” He chooses to ignore the look that invades her features, instead opting to let his sore limbs relax against the cot beneath him. “You will find that I do not take them well. One of my many vices.”

“Try not to be insulted when I say that I am not surprised by this information,” she sasses back at him. Her features soften, taking on the appearance she had when he had first gazed upon her not long ago. “Tell me then, before you rest, your name is it Rahim? Omid?”

“You choose to begin this game now? I thought you said I should rest,” he complains, taking his time to try and discover the meaning behind her inquiry. “No. Those are not my name.”

“Another time then, stranger.”

“Yes, another time.” As his eyes close, he hears her leave, the door she has entered through latching shut behind her. All the while, the sounds of the city continue to pour in from outside and through the opened window – he finds their melody to be more soothing than that of the most gentle of lullabies. As he falls into a deep slumber, his mind swirls with thoughts of slaughter and conquest, knowing now that his revenge has only just begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i) My medical knowledge is somewhat limited, much more so concerning ancient techniques. I did some research into the types of treatments used for sun poisoning (especially in the past), but for the most part I decided to keep it vague, since I figure The Dark Prince would also have limited medical knowledge.
> 
> ii) The Dark Prince’s apperance is based off of his concept art in the unreleased prototype of the third Prince of Persia game, Kindred Blades. He appears much more human in this version of the game, albeit much more like something not quite alive/a corpse. So, it isn’t a perfect image of the apperance I’m giving him, but if you’re wondering why he has white hair, I wanted a little shoutout.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dark Prince experiences a nightmare that seems all too real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter TWs: Unreality, death, major injuries, throat trauma, war, mentions of harm to women/children.

The smell of smoke punctuates the air and swirls around him, threatening to fill his lungs with its very blackness. All around him, the heat of hell itself burns, splitting apart his head in a manner that causes his whole body to feel as if the world itself has been placed onto his shoulders, threatening to push him down into an endless abyss beneath him. When he opens his eyes, he is surprised to discover that this is not the case, but instead all around him the city burns. Quickly, he pushes himself onto his feet, scrambling out of the dirt as his eyes search the new landscape for any sign of what has transpired.

Flames roar around him, licking at his skin as they pour from shattering windows and ashen doorways. With a gasp, he presses himself safely away from them and into a stone barrier nearby. He hears women shrieking, begging for their children to be spared from the present horror. The clang of metal – the blades of swords—rings out and he swears that the very smell of death breaks through the wall of other, more preferable smells.

He should not be there, he surmises, staring at the war torn city that stretches out ahead of him. With the Vizier dead and the sands gone, Babylon should be in a time of peace, yet before him is evidence otherwise. He takes another cautious step back and hisses sharply when a shock of pain shoots through the left side of his body not unlike an arrow to the back. He reaches out, touching his hand to his arm in a vain attempt to stop whatever has caused the sudden agony, but this causes more pain as blades dig into the soft flesh, tearing it apart without effort.

He cries out, dropping to his knees and cursing wildly while looking at the source of his agony. Wrapped firmly around his arm he sees a sight that, in other circumstances, would normally bring him great joy. Instead it chews into him, causing blood to pool around him at an alarming rate. The Daggertail lies at his feet, gleaming in the firelight and trembling slightly with his every movement. If he was not its master, he might have thought the blade had managed to take on a life of its own. His flesh, still very much human, begs for relief, pounding at the edges of his mind in protest when he does not comply, howling in agony that he has yet to relieve this pain.

“Where am I?” he croaks, pushing himself off of the wall and stumbling forward on legs that threaten to buckle beneath his weight. “What is this place?”

He receives no answer within the wailing city and with labored breaths, he moves forward, grasping onto the remnants of walls and railings for support. It takes him several minutes until he finally falls forward, crashing down onto his knees as blood begins to soak the final unsoiled pieces of his attire. His head continues to pound, worse than before, as though his skull is chipping away piece by piece.

From somewhere in front of him, a woman calls out. Her voice is muddled, impossible to understand; it is as if he is drowning beneath the weight of the ocean and her voice resides on the surface, fathoms above him. He gazes towards the sound, only to find that he has been encircled by figures with faces obscured by a shimmering haze. The form in front of him sinks to its knees in a manner which mirrors his own. He falls backwards, forcing his body away from the thing as it reaches forward with an empty hand, beckoning him to take it in his own.

He stares, wide eyes with what he refuses to admit is fear, and he carefully reaches back, grasping onto the thing’s hand. Around him, the sounds of screaming cease and the heat of the flames vanish, until the only thing left is the figures around him. All at once, his muscles relax and a pleasant warmth, one so different than what he was feeling moments ago, courses through him. The pain in his arm is gone, the Daggertail gradually loosening its viselike hold on him before clattering to the ground in a pile that reminds him of a dead cobra.

His heart is pounding in his chest.

Finally, he breaks his gaze from his discarded weapon, turning once more to the figure that still sits in front of him. Their hands are still intertwined and it does not move, does not breath, only continues to sit silently and watch him from somewhere under the glowing mist that surrounds its face.

“What are you?” He mutters, finally acknowledging the shaking in his voice and the fear that is tearing a hole into his chest.

The creature stands and he tightens his hold on it, trying to pull it back to his level and get the answers he so desperately wants. Despite his efforts, it pulls its hand free and turns to walk away, leaving him grasping at the empty air in front of him. Without warning, the screams resume and the heat of the burning city returns. He howls as agony returns to his broken form, cutting deep into his flesh as the Daggertail twists its way back onto his arm, once more tearing and slicing into his flesh without mercy.

When he finds the strength to glance up, to look for the figure that had briefly offered him some relief from this torture, he sees a woman standing before him, her dress flowing from her form and pooling around her like tar and muck. He searches for her face, but just as before, this figure has been clouded in a haze of gold, obscuring her identity from him.

She thrusts her hand forward, sending him flying back into a wall that he is sure had not been behind him previously. He groans, the pain pouring through his body like molten lead and shakes his head, willing away the confusion in his mind and replacing it with barely controlled ire.

As he plunges his arm ahead, the Daggertail snaps to attention, ready to obey its master in a single second. He forces himself to his feet, ignoring the cries of his body and brain to rest and instead replaces his torment with a twisted smile, baring his teeth at the woman. He finds that the scene has once more changed without his notice. The figures that had circled him before have all been brought to their knees, lining up in a row just ahead of this unknown attacker, crying out for something he cannot understand.

In her arms, one figure hangs loosely – the creature that had given him its hand and offered him relief. The woman holds it securely, an arm firmly pressed against it, holding it so close that he finds himself wondering if it might shatter from the pressure of her grasp.

“Get back!” he threatens, again snapping the Daggertail as he steps towards them. It digs itself further into his arm, but he pushes onward. “Let it go!”

He hears the muffled sound of speaking once more; this voice speaks sharply and with a purpose that causes a shiver to work its way up his spine. It is nothing like the ones earlier, and he strains to hear whatever it may speak. Suddenly, the stranger carves a blade through the air in front of her, gliding across the form as it thrashes in her arms. Time comes to a halt, silence washes over the city and the forms near her stay deathly still until finally blood – it looks like red silk, he realizes, as his stomach aches—begins to spill from the wound and onto the front of the creature.

It takes what seems to be hours for the thing to stop convulsing and succumb to the fatal blow that has been inflicted upon it. His chest aches and his heart pounds, all for reasons he cannot understand, until finally, he growls and rushes forward, the Daggertail soaring through the air towards the woman. Again, she thrusts a hand toward him, sending him back, only this time instead of a wall, there is only a black abyss to greet him.

The normal flow of time returns to him, he jolts forward, eyes wide and searching, trying to find a light to guide him within the blackness. Instead, to his confusion he finds _only_ light surrounding him and the somewhat familiar setting he had first awoken in only days prior greets him. The knowledge does little to slow the beating of his heart though and he crumples down, pressing his chest against his knees in an attempt to regain control over himself.

As his senses return and he pushes the anxiety down into the depths of his psyche, he feels the tender touch of hands on his shoulder and back. He freezes – only for a moment—his body tensing as it assesses the strange touch for threats, before he decides to attack. Thrusting his weight to the side, he turns himself to face the stranger, his hand reaching out and fastening around their throat.

“Sneaking up on your patients is a good way to find yourself dead,” he warns when he finds only Azar at the end of his assault. Her eyes are wide with both anger and surprise, but her hands have not moved, still reaching out for him in some silly display of compassion. He releases her, watching as she quickly moves to sooth the spots where his fingers had previously been digging into her flesh.

“I thought you might be hurt!” she snaps, shoving her hands at him and standing, putting distance between them. “Forgive me for being concerned.”

She turns away from him, watching outside as the first light of the day continues to pour through the open window. They remain that way for some time, neither saying a word while they both recover from the shocks they have suffered so early in the day. Absentmindedly, he rubs a hand on his arm and notices that her own hand still has not left her throat, though she appears to be in no pain from his sudden outburst.

“You could at least apologize,” she states, facing him once more.

He huffs, annoyed, sending a stray strand of white hair that has tickled onto his face flying upwards. Her eyes narrow in response, clearly not amused that he finds that no transgression has occurred between them. He watches her as another, smaller breath rushes past his lips. “You surprised me. Do you often grab people as they slumber?”

“You were dreaming. Something terrible.” Her eyes have softened now, but the spark of irritation lies beneath the surface. He knows his actions have not left her mind, no matter how sympathetic her voice sounds. “I heard you screaming and I thought—“

“You were hearing things,” he insists. “Oh, do not tell me you were worried?”

“Hearing things? Ha!” She rests herself against the table nearest to her, legs outstretched towards him and hands clasping the wood until her knuckles of pale against her rich, russet brown flesh. “You are stubborn as a mule, you know.”

“Another of my more charming qualities.” He yawns, falling back onto the mattress beneath him with a soft _poof_ as air rushes out from the fabric. “Only a week I’ve been confined here and you’ve already nearly guessed them all. Good work.”

“Yet somehow I have yet to guess your ever so elusive name.” She pauses, chewing on her lip gently. “Ehsan?”

“You’ve already said that one. Yesterday morning.”

Her feet slide back, boots scratching against the floor in an unpleasant manner, causing the hairs on his arms to stand. “Hard to keep track when I have already guessed so many, you know. This game of yours is getting tired and you cannot possibly tell me that you prefer me calling you stranger.”

Lazily, he picks at his fingernails; his eyes remain open, but only just, as he continues the action, choosing silently to ignore her frustrations. Though if he was being honest, he was quite impressed that she had not chosen to give up already and admit defeat. In the course of a week she has spouted off dozens of names, maybe hundreds, and despite his resolve to remain anonymous, she still spewed off dozens more each time they spoke. Not one sat right though.

Born nameless and trapped with only his counterpart to speak to had left him with little reason to desire such a _human_ novelty. His existence simply was, no need to attach some frivolous label to it – unless that title was king, that is. Or at least, that is how it had been. Now, as he paraded around in this very much human form, the thing seemed required if he did not want to have any reason to stand out of place from the rest of the common folk.

How annoying.

“Try harder, I’m sure you’re getting so close.” He finally replies, eyes slowly shifting to watch her again. Raising a white brow, he smirks. “I find myself nearly rooting for you. Such determination. An admirable quality… in the right amounts.”

He cannot help but chuckle when she rolls her eyes in response, pushing herself forward and balancing on her feet. Walking a few steps, she takes hold of a pitcher. “Fine then, continue on with your namelessness. Soon enough, whether you have one or not, it will no longer be my concern.”

“So ready to be rid of me? Such a shame.” He began, nose scrunching up slightly when he digs too deeply beneath his fingers. “And I thought we were just starting to become friends.”

“I find bonding quite difficult when you do nothing to repay me for all I have done.” She sets the pitcher of cool water on the table next to him, as if it will bring emphasis to her words. “Those herbs were not cheap. Nor does that bring into account all the food you have practically pilfered from my kitchen!”

“A smarter person would know not to offer their services to strangers before they knew if they had the coin.” Hoisting himself up, he grabs onto the heavy jug and cautiously brings it to his lips, consuming some of the liquid inside. “If I recall, I never did ask for your help. I only awoke after you had already taken the selfless task upon yourself.”

Her eyes narrow and he quickly, but with meticulous movement, finishes off the water before teasingly saying, “Determined and noble. You know, I think I’ve almost gotten you figured out too.”

Azar meets his gaze for a moment, her eyes still sparking with annoyance at his behavior. Her arms cross over her body and weight shifts to one leg, another one of her mannerisms that all too much reminds him of Farah. He wonders, do all women have these aggravating tendencies, or is he just so lucky as to always run into them?

“I must go to the market for supplies. If I’m lucky Roshanak will still have what I need among her wares.” Once more her eyes narrowed, resting the blame on her visitor. “What luck too, that you are well now. Tomorrow evening you will be able to leave my home and I can get back to the normal flow of business!”

“Tomorrow evening?” He sputters, shoulders tensing. “You said nothing to suggest soon would be _so_ soon.”

“Oh?” She mocks, her lips pressed thin. “Well, consider this your notice.”

Without another word, Azar steps through the door. As it slams shut behind her, he winces and bares his teeth in agitation. Of course he had known that his stay with the girl was not a permanent situation (nor an ideal one, as he should have never been under her care to begin with), but it had quickly become a source of shelter. He has no gold and while obtaining the coin would prove to be no serious problem, running about and thieving such large amounts will only attract unwanted attention to his person.

With no weapons and only tattered garments hanging – barely—onto his skin, he is already more than aware that a confrontation with his other half is suicide. This body is weak, requires more care than he would like, but it also provides him an escape from the void he has been wandering endlessly since his defeat. He shudders.

He needs a plan; he needs his Daggertail.

Reaching up, he rakes a hand through his hair, tugging it through the knots and tangles in frustration. As it stands, he decides, this place is a source of shelter, food, and (he groans) water. His body, although better, still aches when he moves and the skin at his back still peels grotesquely from the damage brought on by the sun. For now, he needs the wench; needs her home until he can be reunited with his precious weapon and face the heir of Persia without worry that he may collapse in the heat of battle.

Azar is already annoyed with him, he is sure that is the true reason behind her sudden announcement. He will need to play nicer with her then if he wants to stay in her home. An annoying trait of humans, he thinks, is how much they value their pointless manners.

With a loud sigh, he pushes himself up from the cot that has been his resting place for several days and grabs a single pair of boots that Azar had brought him only a few days prior. Slipping them onto his feet takes more effort than he would like, as the skin on his shoulders still protests as he moves, but within only a few minutes the task is finished. It is then that he moves to the door and pushing it open. Gazing out, The Dark Prince watches silently as the city moves freely and without worry before setting out onto the city streets for the first time since his arrival.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not the best time to run into a familiar face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter TWs: Mentions of minor injuries/broken appendages.

The streets of Babylon are much the same as The Dark Prince remembers. Children run along the road next to carts carrying wares, hitting together sticks and yelling nonsense, while adults go about their daily work. If he had not been present for the Vizier’s attack, he could almost be fooled that no war had taken place within the city’s walls in the first place. Most of the destruction caused by the invading army has been reversed, with entire buildings having been rebuilt completely and others scrubbed clean of their damage.

As he gracefully weaves his way through the masses that crowd the streets, his eyes search for his hostess amongst them. With his intimate knowledge of the city, he is able to quickly find a nearby marketplace, cluttered with stalls and merchants shouting about their goods. From there he moves quickly until he stumbles, quite literally, into a familiar face.

His stomach drops.

Before him stands none other than the Prince of Persia, face contorted in a funny manner as he blinks away the confusion their collision has caused him. For a moment, The Dark Prince considers fleeing, for if anyone in the accursed city is to recognize him, it would be the man before him, but another and much louder part of him tells him to stay put. Fleeing would only bring about more suspicion and the last thing he needs is palace guards searching every crevice of the city for him. He stays planted where he is, eyes wide and jaw pressed tightly together as he watches the royal brush off his tunic slightly.

“My apologies.” The Prince looks up at him; a sincere smile on his face and the demon finds it almost impossible to stop himself from attacking the royal right there. “I really should keep an eye on where I am going.”

“You should,” he snaps, but grimaces immediately after the words leave his mouth.

If he was not busy mentally kicking himself he might find the absolute taken aback look on the face of his rival something worth a laugh. Instead, his shoulder tense and he suddenly finds it hard to breath. He feels weak, very small, in front of the man before him and he tries to attribute that to the fact that nearby several guards have now placed their hands upon their weapons, rather than the fact that this unexpected encounter has put him deeply on edge. This battle, no matter how small, is not something he is prepared for.

The Prince’s eyes narrow, his brow scrunching up as looks him up and down. “Yes. Well, I will endeavor to do so in the future.”

This time, The Dark Prince presses his teeth together tighter, so they are viselike in their pressure. A reckless mistake, he chides himself, one he cannot afford to make. For now his only hope is that the royal will move on, choosing to ignore his brash comments and dismiss him as he would any other of the rabble on the streets. Then again, he has never been so lucky and as the man before him had once stated, wishful thinking has only ever led to disappointment.

“And who are you?” The Prince questions, his eyes moving up to examine the unusual hair color The Dark Prince had been given in his new form. “Until this instant, I do not recall ever seeing you upon Babylon’s streets.”

“My origins are not of your concern.” He is shaking now, just slightly, but he keeps his head high as rage builds within his chest, threatening to ruin his plans at any moment. His fingers dig into his palms as his fists tighten and his breathing comes in uneven bursts.

The Prince stands steady before him, dark eyebrows raised and a deep frown forming from his lips. Finally, the shock of his answer wears off and his eyes narrow, giving a silent threat to the man standing before him. A dangerous path has been taken, The Dark Prince knows this, but he cannot find the will to stop himself from poking and prodding at every nerve he knows the man in front of him has. His heart begins to beat even faster.

“What is going on here?” For once he is more than grateful to hear Azar’s voice break the silence that has fallen and both men turn to look at the woman that stands nearby. She glances between them, seemingly trying to deduce what the source of their conflict is, but quickly stops and instead turns to him with narrowed eyes. “What are you doing up? You will only injure yourself further.”

Before he can find the words to respond, the Prince steps towards her, a hand now resting pointedly on the hilt of his sword. “Azar? You know this man?”

“One of my patients. A troublemaker too.” She glares at him before softening her expression and turning to the royal. Only after bowing her head do her eyes narrow as she stands straight and cross her arms. “You’ve returned from India already then, Sargon? How rude that you have not dropped by to say hello.”

“Yes, well…” Sargon trails off, while his eyes regard his disguised counterpart with distaste. His ice colored gaze sends violent chills through his whole body, and Azar stands by silently once more assessing the situation she has stumbled upon with uncertainty. His stomach churns painfully and the fact that this peasant girl knows The Prince does not ease the tension, if anything the air feels thicker and he finds that it is hard to breath.

Gathering his wits – something that takes more effort than he cares for—he finally speaks, addressing Azar while keeping his gaze locked onto his enemy. “I came looking for you.”

A pause.

“Distracted as I was, I did not notice your… friend here before me. Clumsy mistake.” A mistake indeed; the royal continues to watch him, their eyes locked onto one another and every time words fall from his lips, he can see a glint pass through the monarch’s eyes that makes his skin prickle uneasily. The threat of being caught seems upon him. “My fault entirely.”

The tension in Sargon’s shoulders seems to lift, if only slightly, and though the strange gleam in his eyes has not been erased, it is distant enough for The Dark Prince to relax somewhat in turn. He takes the time to ease the rapid beating of his heart, while the other man slowly removes his hand from the sword at his hip. Carefully, he places it upon the girl’s shoulder, fingers squeezing gently in what the demon suspects is some sort of sympathetic human gesture he is unfamiliar with.

“It is good to see you well, Azar,” Sargon states quietly. She bows her head in response and it takes all he has not to gag in disgust that she shows such respect for the pathetic excuse of a ruler. “Pay my respects to Omid and Rahim. And your mother.”

Rising her hands, Azar carefully places them upon Sargon’s forearm. The pair exchanges a sympathetic smile before the Prince finally straightens himself and pulls back, letting his arm fall back to his side. When he turns back to his counterpart, the creature quickly hides his sneer and looks to the ground, hiding from his prying eyes. His gaze lingers for only a second longer before Sargon steps past him without a word and The Dark Prince turns to watch him, waiting until he had thoroughly vanished into the crowd before muttering a quiet curse and running a quivering hand through his hair.

“You should be resting.”

“How do you know that man?” he questions, turning to Azar who watches him with a perplexed expression. “Don’t think I did not notice that palace guards. Friends with the Prince of Persia himself are you?”

Her lips stretch downwards slightly, a frown tracing over them as she continues to eye him as though she has never been in his presence before. “No. Not friends, though I do know him, yes.”

“Not friends and yet you address him so casually! Ha!” His mock laugh is sharp and Azar’s turns her head away slightly with a grimace to avoid the sound. “Shouldn’t the common rabble grovel and kiss his boots as he passes?”

“Not _my_ friend, but my brother’s.” Narrowing her eyes, Azar turns back to meet his gaze. Her words hide a silent fury beneath their calm façade, reminding him how much her patience has thinned since their last conversation in her home.

“Brother?” He puzzles, eyebrows raised as he rakes his memories – the Prince’s memories—for the mysterious sibling she speaks of. He finds there are too many people to recall though. As a youth Sargon had been particularly prone to leaving the palace walls to mingle with his citizens; a past weakness that seemed to have remained in place despite the shifts in the Timeline. “You have never spoken of him before now.”

“A stranger should not be so curious, in my opinion,” she retorts, as she offers him a basket that had been resting at her side up until then. “Help me carry this home then since you are already up.”

With a sigh, he takes the basket and watches as she kneels slightly to scoop another resting at her feet into her arms. They walk together in silence for some time, heading back towards their destination and slipping through the crowds of people still going about their daily business. When he finally speaks, he keeps his eyes straight ahead, rather than turning to see her expression. “How did you meet then?”

Beside him, he hears Azar laugh slightly and rather than having been filled with a twinge of annoyance, it is the first truly joyous sound he has heard pass her lips since they have become acquainted. “He is a troublemaker, just as you are.”

His fingers grip the basket tighter as he buries his anger of being compared to his traitorous counterpart. Thankfully, she does not notice his slight change in demeanor and continues. “As a youth, he would wander the city streets, hiding from his brothers and teachers to avoid his lessons. So, it is no surprise that one time while running about the rooftops, he slips and crashes into my poor mother!

“I suppose destiny is funny that way though, as he had broken his arm in the fall.” He spares as glance in her direction and finds her smiling at the memory, her eyes somewhat distant as she recalls the events. “My mother was a skilled doctor, you see, she taught me herself. Apprenticed me when I was practically still a babe. Anyway, where was I?”

“He had broken his arm in the fall, you said,” he reminds her, but he finds himself able to finally recall the memory from the others he shares with his counterpart. It is a hazy thing, having happened so long ago and not properly belonging to him, but it is still present. Azar continues to speak, but he finds himself distracted from her words as he allows the moving images to play out within his mind.

The child prince had been running on rooftops and not having the experience that years of training had given him, he thought himself capable of more than he was. Foolishly (though foolishness was not uncommon for Sargon even now, he mused), he had attempted a jump that even now would be a difficult feat. He had been falling to the streets in moments and a little voice inside his mind had screeched at him for being so senseless, crying that the fall would surely kill them – an overreaction really.

When he landed, hard and with a sharp cry, his arm had seared painfully and somewhere beside him a woman was slowly picking herself up off the ground. It seemed that luck was on his side that day and she had bore no ill for his mistake and appeared to be unharmed, if anything she seemed more concerned with his health. He only discovered later, when she had gotten him to her home with the help of her son (a boy who had screamed furiously at the injured Prince for nearly harming his mother the entire trip), that she was one of Babylon’s most notable healers.

After finally getting him to lie still on the bed, she had splinted his broken appendage and given him medicine to help ease the pain. All the while, a whelp of a girl had stood uselessly by, her eyes wide with fear and fascination as she watched her mother work. When the task was finished, the older woman had ordered the child to fetch the guards who searched desperately outside for their young charge. The sounds of curses and heavy footsteps soon followed and after they had thanked the woman more times than he could count, Sargon had been carried back to the safety of the palace (and the scolding of his mother and father).

Days later, he had been brought back to the family, guided by the queen and several guards, a small bag of golden coins hanging from his hand, while the other arm was slung uselessly by his chest. Under the watchful eye of his mother, he had been made to apologize for his carelessness and to pay for the supplies the healer woman had provided him without hesitation.

The memory was not a fond one, but The Dark Prince finds that it had not been a terrible one either, rather a memory padded within unpleasant circumstances. A string of destiny that could have been avoided with the right precautions and a little less bravado. But alas it had not and shortly after Sargon had befriended the same youth who had screamed at him before and the two had become nearly inseparable.

Omid, he recalls finally; his name was Omid.

“You knew him?” Azar has paused, standing still in the street and watching him, her brow furrowed.

He stops just ahead of her. His body tenses before turning to her, eyes locking on her own as he tries to read her expression. “What?”

“My brother. You said his name and I have not mentioned it.” Her expression finally softens and her fingers grip into the woven basket she carries tighter. He watches the change in demeanor curiously, while chiding himself for being so careless as to speak his thoughts aloud. “How?”

He frowns. Something of a lie is in order, of course, though he knows nothing of the Omid of this timeline, nothing about the minor changes that may have taken place. A simple one will work best, something to calm the girl’s nerves and keep her from pestering him with ridiculous questions. He does not need her to find that his stories contradict themselves after all.

“Yes, well, I have not seen him since I was last in the city. His royal highness mentioned his name. It is only right to assume… ” A lie filled with half-truths, he thinks, since he had no memories of Omid since the Prince had left for the Island of Time some years ago. “Childhood acquaintances. Nothing more; I barely know him.”

Azar gazes at him curiously for a moment before her eyes finally fall to the street beneath them. “Oh.”

She begins to walk again and he is happy to find that she says nothing further on the topic, choosing instead to leave it behind them. They continue on in silence. Taking the brief time to contemplate his next course of action, the demon knows he must act quickly if he wants to appease the girl. Her decision from earlier in the day still hangs between them and with the Prince’s gaze having been set upon him, he knows that he will have to remain on his best behavior for some time. Just to be safe.

Once they finally reach the door of her small dwelling, he waits at the steps, allowing her to wedge open the door and slip through. He follows suit. Inside, he finds Azar already at work, hanging some of her purchases up to dry and planting others within small pots of dirt to bloom. He watches before striding over, carefully setting his basket next to the other. He says nothing, just continues to watch her as she digs with her slender fingers, the tips of which have been embedded with dark earth, and plants bulbs and seeds within.

“Hang this.” She slides a small bundle of green leaves in his direction, not looking up from her task. He stares at the things before taking them in his hand and bringing them to his nose. They smell fresh, similar to the incense that he vaguely recalls had burned within many of the palace rooms. He turns them over in his hands, examining their leaves and colors as vague memories once more whisper in the back of his mind.

“Careful with that.” Azar’s voice breaks his concentration and memories vanish like smoke before he has a chance to stop them. She has turned her gaze to him now, her head tilted slightly. Her lips verge on a frown.

Hastily, he clears his throat and reaches up to tie the bundle on the line that hangs above them. Seemingly satisfied, Azar turns back to her original task, which he once again watches with mild interest. Cautiously he decides to speak, “Earlier I was rather rude.”

She pauses. He takes it as a good sign.

“You were right.” He lies, coolly. “I should be more grateful towards you. Had you not offered such a kindness, I would surely be dead by now. I humbly present you an apology for my behavior.”

“I’m glad that you have seen the light, stranger.” She raises a brow. “Consider your apology accepted.”

She turns back to her work and he slides a hand to cover the next pot she grasps before continuing, “I have no coin to repay you, you see. As you can imagine, I did not end up naked in the desert of my own design and until I was brought to you, my luck has been… well, let us just say it has been poor. In fact, I have been rather lucky that you have allowed me into your home so freely and when I leave tonight, I’m afraid that I will have no place to go. I just wanted to offer you my thanks for such generosity.”

Azar raises a brow and smirks, moving her hand away from the clay vessel and turning to rest her back against the table. “Let me guess, you would be ever so grateful if I would allow you to remain here? You have come to understand the error of your ways and now that you have apologized, I should take pity on you? After all, my poor heart must feel some painful tug at the thought of you sleeping out on the cold streets?”

His eyes widen a bit and he opens his mouth to protest. At the sight, Azar’s head falls back and she laughs. Her shoulders shake and finally she sets her eyes upon him, that same smirk from before mocking him. She taps her fingernails in rhythmic bursts, waiting for him to respond.

“Fine. You caught me,” he growls. “But I am not lying when I say I have no coin and no place to go.”

“And I should just let you stay here?” She is still looking at him with that insufferable smile on her face. Placing a hand on her chest, she finishes, “Out of the kindness of my heart?”

His eyes narrow and he lets an irritated hiss pass from his lips.

“Come now, I am not so cruel.” She snickers, lifting a hand and patting it against his cheek softly. “I’ll let you stay. On one condition.”

He rips his face away from her, baring his teeth in a threatening manner before snatching her hand in his own. She raises a brow in response, yanking her hand back and crossing her arms defiantly. “No please, no thanks needed. Though, your appreciation is simply astounding, I must say.”

“What is it you want, woman?”

She smiles. “Nothing you cannot afford.”

With that, she strides away, taking a few steps away from him before grabbing a broom that had been resting in the corner up until that moment. Turning it around in her hands, she examines it for a moment before turning to him, that self-satisfied smirk once more plastered upon her face. She thrusts her arm forward slightly, tossing the thing to him and he quickly grabs it before it falls to the ground below them.

“Well then,” she chuckles, “get cleaning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i) Are people still doing the thing where they put name meanings in the author's notes? I hope so because these names were all picked very carefully! Sargon is an Assyrian name that translates to "true king" or "only king." I never mentioned it before, but Azar is a Persian name translating to "fire.” I'll translate any other mentioned names as the characters become more relevant to the story, or mentioned more frequently.
> 
> ii) I went and saw Venom not too long ago (after a fan of the comic for years, can I just say I'm so happy to see a bigger fandom surrounded around this series?) and honestly, so many of Venom and Eddie's interactions could play out as the Prince and Dark Prince. Especially the "pile of bodies, pile of heads" bit.
> 
> iii) I have about 34 chapters for this fic currently of about sixty, but due to starting a new job and moving, I've slowed down a bit in writing. Hopefully I can get back on track and start posting more updates. I don't want to leave anyone hanging for too long and I want to ensure this story is finished so there aren't super long wait times. So, no worries... once things are edited, I can start posting a bit more!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of a game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter TW: Mentions of violence against women.

The days have begun to get hotter, he notes, falling back against his small cot with a huff. His clothes stick to him unpleasantly and he finds himself shedding layers to keep from succumbing to the sun’s vicious onslaught. With a heavy groan, he pulls free of his tunic, balling it up tightly and throwing it onto the table nearby. It hits the wall with a dull _thump_ before landing on the surface and he is pleased to find that the fabric of his pillow is much cooler than the air around him. He savors the feeling.

Outside of the room, he can see Azar tending to her strange herbs. Her clothes also stick to her flesh and sweat drips down her forehead, causing the dark strands of her hair to cling to her in a manner that looks uncomfortable. Every few minutes, she brings the back of her hand to her face and wipes away the offending fluid. Otherwise, she makes no indications of her discomfort.

He scoffs.

She glances over at him and raises a thin brow. “It should begin to cool off soon. With the way you go about complaining, one would think you had never experienced a day of warmth in your life.”

“Heat I do not mind. In fact, I rather enjoy it.” He says, using his feet to pry his boots off. “It is the sweating I could do without.”

She chuckles quietly and returns to her task. The blade in her hand works its way back and forth, slicing into some plant unknown to him. Quickly, he loses interest in her, instead allowing his eyes to close and pulse to slow. Sleep begins to embrace him – the air is thick, almost too much so for him to allow the feeling to overtake him—but just as its arms begin to finish their hold, Azar interrupts, jarring him awake once more. “You only just finished cleaning. Would it not be better to keep your clothing off the furniture for at least a few hours?”

“I am the one who cleaned, so I will do as I please. One shirt lying about does not a mess make.” He snaps, keeping his eyes firmly shut.

For a moment, he thinks she has admitted defeat and allowed silence once more to fall into the home. It is not long before he finds that while he is half right, Azar does not seem as content with the latter as he certainly is. “Very well, then let us speak of other things.”

“It is too hot for speaking.” He complains.

“Don’t be silly.” She chides and he can hear her set her knife aside. “If anything it will distract us until night falls.”

With a sigh, he hoists himself up. “Fine then. I doubt any sleep could be comfortable as it is now anyway.”

“Xerxes?”

“Really? This again, I thought you might have given up by now.” He pushes his hair back with a sticky hand. “No. Don’t you think that is much too obvious anyway? I’m surprised you hadn’t guessed it sooner.”

She hums softly, slowly approaching and taking a seat beside him. “Yes, but as I said, I have begun to run out of ideas. The obvious is much of all I have left.”

“Don’t sit there.”

“I will sit where I please in my own home.”

“The heat is unbearable as it is, I do not need yours on top of it.”

She rolls her eyes. “I thought it was the sweat?”

“Either way.” He grumbles. Her eyes roll once more, but she protests no further and instead moves away from him, taking a seat on the top of the wooden table that rests across the room. As she folds her legs beneath herself, one knee bumps against the fabric of his discarded tunic and she swats it away with a murmur of exasperation. He tries not to look smug about the situation. “Take another guess.”

Azar sits back, folding her leg together and picking at her nails. “Bahadur?”

“No.”

“Surely it must be Firuz?”

“Wrong again.”

She sighs. Her hair begins to stick to her forehead again and the ends of it have begun to frizz in the heat. The image adds to the air of irritation that surrounds her and he smiles despite himself. Almost as if she can hear his thoughts, she reaches back to gather up the mess and ties it back, pulling the cord holding the top of her tunic shut free to do so.

“Arman?” She inquires, letting her hands fall back to her sides, tracing a finger against the grain of the wood. Her nail picks into the surface, damaging the table in ways only those with keen eyes would notice. Her frown deepens. “Or perhaps you are called Seti?”

“Neither.”

With a howl of anger, she takes his discarded top into her hands and throws it towards him. The fabric hits his face and he thrashes his hands about in an attempt to grab the thing before tearing it away and glaring in her direction. He hates the sparkle of amusement that dances in her eyes and the bark of laughter that escapes her mouth. She pretends not to notice his annoyance.

“Was that really necessary?” He says, tossing the tunic away towards the end of his bed. It slides to the floor silently and Azar shakes her head, a huff of breath working past her lips – more than likely due to the fact that he is already creating a mess. Not that it is her business what he does, he thinks. “You are the one who insists on continuing to play this game. If you are tired of guessing, then simply give up. My name is not so important anyhow.”

“I do not like losing.” She remarks, leaning forward slightly.

He rolls his eyes in response and she continues to watch him, quiet now. They sit like that for several minutes, neither saying a word, trying their best to ignore the heat of the day that finally begins to recede as the sun sinks and the moon rises in the sky. All the while, sweat continues to cling to his skin, running against the contours of his flesh in tiny rivets. He brushes them away with a look of disgust.

After the silence has dragged on longer than he finds himself comfortable with, he casts his gaze back towards his companion. Her eyes are still on him. He scrunches his nose, the awareness of her watching him settling in his stomach awkwardly like a heavy stone. His mind turns once more to the thought of discovery and he tries not to think of the possibility of the Prince of Persia charging in heroically to slay him once again. Perhaps it would be best if he killed the girl now, if he stuffed the body somewhere and told those who came to find her that she was out and would be back later.

He is sure that would go well: You have come to see Azar? Well, I have not seen here since yesterday. What am I doing in her home? I’m her patient. No, no. I am sure she will return later, if you would just—Oh you were here yesterday? Well, how strange. Not like her at all I am sure.

No. For all the annoyances, the situation he found himself in was for the best. If he attracts too much attention, someone might try to get the city’s guards involved, or worse they might take the matter directly to Sargon. An outcome he knows he simply is not ready for. Not yet. Not until he finds a proper weapon, not until he has the upper hand against his counterpart. He needs the Daggertail, after that some part of him cries that the rest will fall into place.

“Merikh?”

Her voice startles him, bringing him out of his thoughts so quickly that he can feel the back of his skull pounding in protest. His gaze falls back on her and he snarls, his anger at her hypothetical involvement in his capture still weighing heavily on his mind. “What?”

“Merikh. Is that your name?”

A bubble of annoyance works its way up to his chest. She really is intent on playing this game to its end. The novelty of her frustrations is beginning to wear off as the game continues to drag on (though he is aware that the novelty of the game never truly appealed to the girl in the first place). Or perhaps the heat is just getting to him. He pretends it is the former.

“Why would you think I would be called that then?” He questions, voice teetering between exhaustion and ire. “Come now. Surely you have a reason.”

Her head falls slightly to one side. “The game was that you answer me, not interrogate me about my reasoning. Yes or no?”

“Answer my question and I shall give you what you desire.” Grunting a bit, he pulls his feet onto the bed. “Oh, don’t give me that look. Can I not be curious? I really should have been asking the entire time.”

“Very well.” Something of a sigh rushes from her mouth and her shoulders slump, hands supporting the sudden weight as she casts her gaze upon him with a half-amused raise of her brow. She raises one arm suddenly, pointing a single finger in his direction and narrowing her eyes. “Though I will hold you to your end of the bargain.”

He raises his hands up in a gesture of surrender and she smiles, just a bit. “There is an air about you. A hunger in your eyes that does not remind me of anything I have seen before. I see it when you think I am not looking.”

He tenses, his muscles freezing rapidly and his entire body feels as if he has plunged beneath the surface of the ocean. He finds it hard to breath. She watches him again, observing the sudden change of behavior with interest before continuing. “Something has brought you to this city, something that cannot simply be blind luck. That hunger in your eyes. That is why I said Merikh.”

He sucks in a breath, holding it in as he tries to gather his thoughts and calm the dull ache that still resides in the back of his head. When his lungs begin to burn, he releases his hold, slowly allowing the air to push from his nostrils before taking it just as slowly back in. When he is finally done, he looks at her, smirking and confident as ever, “A fool’s reasoning then? I thought you might have thought of something clever.”

“Is it always your aim to insult me?” She hisses, her teeth gritted together and cheeks flushing so quickly that he snorts from the sheer absurdity of her appearance – the ends of her tress even seem to stick out more. “You asked for a reason and I have given it! I shall not play the part of the fool in this grand game you have sought to play. Now, fulfill your end of our agreement before the ground outside becomes your quarters for the night!”

A short laugh and a roll of his eyes are her first response. Giving her time to silently fume, he curls a wisp of his white locks upon one finger, taking his time to weigh his next words carefully. “Fine then, a deal is a deal. Now, would you stop looking at me like that? I was only joking.”

 _Mostly._ Though he decides it best to keep that to himself. He also elects to ignore the weight her words have cast upon him, which still makes his stomach do awkward flips and a bitter taste rise to his mouth. Instead, he says, “Merikh is a fine name.”

In truth, it is simply a name. One that holds no meaning to him besides the fact that it is a means to an end. It will do, he decides.

Her mouth opens slightly, lips pursing slightly as her brows furrow. Before she has a chance to speak, he continues, “It would seem you have guessed correctly. Our little game has been brought to an end. What a shame.”

She says nothing, which admittedly surprises him. He rather expected her to make a big show of the whole thing, threatening to use his name in some magic spell as she had when they had first spoken. She sits there instead, eyes cast upon the floor and body still. Frozen in place, like a statue.

“Come on then. Say something.”

A smirk slowly makes its way to her features and she leans back against the wall, chin tilted up slightly towards the ceiling as she watches him with an amused gaze. When she speaks, her voice is edged with hints of mirth, “It is nice to meet you, Merikh.”

“Yes, yes. How nice to finally be properly introduced.” He returns her stare, fighting back a grin of his own. “Azar.”

She laughs. It starts at her shoulders and works its way down until she is finally gripping onto the sides of her stomach. It is a sight to behold, as he is used to her frustrated glances and half amused snickers. He finds himself joining her, amused by the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

“Have I already told you how stubborn you are?” She says between fits of giggles. “All this could have been avoided had you been reasonable.”

He chokes back another wave of laughter, his chest shaking slightly. “The game brought you some entertainment, did it not? And if anything it filled your time.”

He expects her mood to sour then, but instead her eyes narrow, obscuring her gaze from him as a smirk stretches its way onto her lips. “I have plenty to do without your help. You forget I have patients to care for.”

“I have not forgotten.” He says. “Though your other patients cannot be nearly as much fun as I am. Surely you agree?”

She responds by pushing herself up off the table and rolling her eyes dramatically, though her humor remains ever present. As she turns her back to him, striding from the room and back towards her strange herbs, he gathers that their conversation has come to an end. Still, he watches her for a while longer, trying to ignore the strange chill that works down his back when she turns her gaze back to him; her dark eyes search his and he cannot help but wonder if she can see beneath his façade. As if she can sense his discomfort, her gaze shifts away, lingering on the ground, but distant with thought. He forces himself to look away and only relaxes once more when the scraping of her knife resumes.

What previous amusement he had felt rapidly vanishes.

Air pours from his nostrils. The tension in his muscles slowly dissipates. His head clears. Everything slowly returns to how it should be and Azar makes no attempts to pry into her assumptions about what has brought him into the city. She is more perceptive than she gives herself credit for and the thought of doing away with her before her curiosity proves to be his downfall creeps back into his thoughts.

He lets it sit there.

A wave of anger overtakes him and returns him to the shores of ire that he is most familiar with. He lets it push him and sink into every dark crevice in his mind; as he falls back onto the mattress, the idea continues to play out until it is so clear he is sure it could be a memory. He is getting impatient. All this lounging around, the time he has wasted waiting for his wounds to heal, has cost him valuable time. He needs to act.

Surely he has been brought back for a purpose and not by some divine being. No. This could only be the work of one thing, he decides, bringing his hand to eye level with his face. He twists the appendage back and forth, taking in the warm brown-red of his flesh, with a satisfied grin. Yes, for all the power of some God, only one thing could have possibly brought him back.

“The Sands of Time.” He mutters, hushed as to keep Azar from hearing him. “But how?”

The Sands of Time are gone, at least to the best of his knowledge. He had watched Kaileena leave their realm through Sargon’s eyes; he had witnessed as she had destroyed the last of the artifacts and with them his last chance to reign over the world as a god. It should not be possible. Despite every reason he brings forth as to just how impossible this should be, nothing appeals to and frightens him more than the possibility that his theory is correct.

It has to be correct.

There is simply no other magic strong enough. None that he is able to recall, even over the many adventures that his other half had been through over the many years, with the ability to raise the dead. And he had been at least hovering the line between life and simple existence after he had been left to rot in the forgotten darkness of the royal’s conscious, had he not?

Perhaps that is what scares him. Not how. No, how seems to have a simple enough explanation, even with the many other questions it raises. The more troubling question that fills his mind is _why_. Why has he been brought back? Surely if it was the Sands doing, The Empress brought him back for some purpose, some future she had foreseen that he was still blind to. She would not permit him the chance of life only for him to bring Babylon to its knees.

She would never let him kill her precious Prince of Persia.

There must be a reason.

Working his hand into a tight fist, he brings it down next to him with a low growl. Nearby, Azar pauses in her work and he imagines she must be looking at him with that funny quirk of her brow and her deep frown of annoyance. Another snarl breaks free past his teeth. It all makes no sense. The how and the why cannot possibly come together, not with Kaileena pulling the strings. She would know he was dangerous. She would know his goals.

“So why?” He hisses through gritted teeth, his mood souring further with each thought that passes. So many questions and he needs his answers. The time to act is upon him. He cannot stand idly by as his life slips through his fingertips. He will not go back to the border of life and death.

“Is everything alright?”

He turns his head, letting it fall gently to the side and his gaze settle on his hostess. She stands at the doorway, eyes filled with a mixture of worry and suspicion. Still though, she does nothing to point out his odd behavior.

“I am just,” he pauses, biting onto the tip of his tongue as he watches her shift the weight on her feet back and forth, “getting antsy. All cooped up in here for so long.”

Her gaze lingers, but she nods in acceptance. “Perhaps you are due for a stroll then. Your skin has healed up rather well and I suppose that as long as the sun is set—“

“Yes.” He interrupts, jumping to his feet quickly before she can say anything more. “I would say I agree. Allow me to get reacquainted with the city.”

She steps forward, her mouth opening to speak, but he quickly cuts her off, “The fresh air could do me wonders. It is as I said: I’m restless.”

She frowns. Then comes a short nod, a silent acknowledgement of her understanding – or perhaps of her acceptance, though he does not really care which. Nothing more is said between them and instead she waves a hand in his direction, signaling for him to be on his way before turning back to her work. He responds in kind and sets out.

Towards the palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i) Merikh is an Arabic name for the planet Mars, possibly meaning “death” or “slaughter.” Azar’s reasonings for the name are less to do with that literal meaning and due to the fact that she fully believes there is rage and a private war he is partaking in. Plus, she was running out of ideas.
> 
> ii) I am going to try and get these chapters edited more quickly, but I also want to be honest and say I am having trouble with mental health at the current moment. I am trying not too get too ahead of myself and start posting chapters too quickly. I have over 50% of this story written, but due to a huge amount of stress and family issues, I have been in a writer’s block for some time. That being said, I’m not giving up on this story. As I said, I have over 50% written, it’s just getting past this mental fog before I feel comfortable posting much more regularly.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter TWs: Accidental Self Harm, Violence, Hand Injuries.

It almost seems foolish that he had thought breaching the palace walls would be a difficult task. He had even entertained the thought that he might be spotted by one of the guards before he was able to heave himself over the walls and yet, it simply was not so. To say he was surprised that his counterpart would make such a naive mistake though, even after all of his misadventures, would be an exaggeration. Sargon was simply too trusting, too confident.

He pauses.

Or perhaps the imbecile thought his personal guards were of better use protecting the rabble. How insulting, though completely to character. With Farah around, guiding his conscience like a trainer would its mutt, Sargon was likely to throw himself blindly into danger if it meant protecting his citizens. It is disgusting to think that they had once shared a mind and body.

Taking a deep breath, he lurches forward, catching onto one of the building’s bricks and scrambling his feet upwards. With a sharp push, he springs back, sending himself flying upwards and catching himself on a nearby beam. He finds his body is still weak, and it takes much more effort than he is pleased to admit before he is able to pull himself upwards. So the process goes: jump, climb, jump, climb. His arms are sore, practically burning, by the time he clambers up one of the balconies.

“All of this and with my luck, there is probably no one guarding the front door!” With a huff of breath, he falls back, resting against the cool, brick wall and rubbing at his numbing palms.

He stays there, sitting on the marble floors and chest heaving as he catches his breath. Just beyond the doorway, he can see torches dimly lighting the familiar halls. Shadows creep back and forth as the flames flicker, dancing with the gusts of nighttime air that pour inside. He waits for the opportunity to move into the blackness before rising to his feet and dashing forward, allowing himself to be swallowed inside.

All at once, things grow much quieter. He can barely hear the wind now and the chaos of the city, which had only been a fraction of what it was during the daylight hours, seems to vanish within the royal halls. Occasionally he hears the squeaking of boots nearby, or the sounds of hushed words being spoken. He assumes what few guards his other half has kept nearby are making their nightly rounds and he slinks deeper into the darkness at the very notion.

He needs to move quickly. Before what luck he has runs out and he is found.

Moving forward he allows his – Sargon’s—memories to guide him through the maze of hallways. The palace is just how he remembers. It seems an eternity ago that he had set foot within its walls. And perhaps it has been, he realizes. He shivers. His mission is still ongoing, he reasons, with a violent shake of the head. He does not have time to think on matters of his existence at the present. Another time perhaps.

Ahead, he hears the sounds of approaching footfalls. His blood runs cold and he circles in a panic, hissing out a whisper of “not now” before looking up and setting eyes on his savior. He moves quickly. Running forward, he sprints up the wall and digs his fingers into the hard edge of bricks before vaulting backwards and hooking his fingers around a metal support that rests above the floor. There he hangs.

His muscles burn as he pulls himself upward. It’s been too long; he has fallen out of practice. He will need to remedy that.

Just as he pulls himself onto the support, his feet holding up his weight and his fingers grasping onto the cool surface so tightly that his knuckles turn white, a lone guard rounds the corner. The armored man does not stop though; being none the wiser to the threat that sits perched in the shadows above him, he continues on his way with a lengthy yawn. It takes all The Dark Prince has not to laugh.

Once he is sure the way ahead is clear, he drops down and lands almost silently on his hands and feet. He will need to move faster than this if he wants to make it to his prize before sunrise. The only problem being, he muses, that where it rests it lost to him.

“That is if it has not been destroyed.” He says, talking to no one in particular. The very thought of his precious weapon being melted down for scraps makes his blood boil and the creeping feeling of panic begin to burn a hole into his chest. “No.”

He moves forward, brushing off his clothing with sore fingertips.

“He is much to sentimental to destroy such a thing.” He decides, looking up and glancing down the next hallways with a snicker. “Probably claims it to be a marker of his victory, perhaps even of our brotherhood.”

As he makes his way towards his goal – for some part of him can sense he is going in the right direction—he mimics the royal, taking on a haughty voice and placing a hand firmly against his heart, “I want it kept nearby, so I might remember the wrongs of my past and continue to improve upon my actions. Make no mistake; I shall not forget this day, or this creature! For he was an enemy and ally, and for such he will be remembered.

“Ha! Pathetic.” He stops, looking down the hall and towards the path that would lead him to the throne room. “Oh.”

He stares at the imposing doorway with a tired expression, already knowing that yes, indeed Sargon would do such a thing. Where better to keep such a treasure than the throne he might sit upon to rule his kingdom? With a frustrated sigh, he lifts his hand from his chest to his face, sliding it up to rub his too tired eyes.

Surely, there will be guards on the other side and even with his physical skills, he doubts that he will be able to take on more than a few without any sort of proper weapon. Rushing in would only spell out his doom, be it death or imprisonment. Neither option sounds appealing.

He will have to find another way in it seems.

He turns, looking at his surroundings for a way inside and spots an opening within the wall’s structure. One of the few markings of the battle that had taken place so long ago still present and now, it presented itself as his savior rather than the sign of their kingdom falling to ruin. It seemed luck was on his side after all. With quick, quiet steps he approaches the area, scaling towards the wall’s wound. It only takes a moment before he is inside.

“Now, let me see.” He whispers, standing upon the ruined stones with fingers resting against his chin. He surveys, letting his eyes sweep across the room with both purpose and curiosity. He is pleased to find not much has changed and that the royal heir has kept most everything as he remembers. That fact alone should make this so much easier.

The sounds of hushed voices meet his ears and he carefully toes towards the edge of his support, shifting his body forward and glancing down towards the source with a sour expression. Guards, as expected. Though these two seem more content to stand idly by and chitchat rather than do their sworn duties.

The demon finds he is almost disappointed. He had expected more of a rush when breaking into his sworn enemy’s homestead, but instead he finds he is able to slink about like some unseen parasite, taking what he wants and feeding off of the scraps they foolishly leave scattered about for him. How silly that they refuse to clean up their mess – to weed out the weak and undeserving—and instead have allowed the great city to weaken its defenses. Have they learned nothing after their homes were destroyed, their families slaughtered, and their riches plundered?

_Has his counterpart learned nothing?_

He feels rage bubble forth, burning at his chest and threatening to spill forth from his lips at any moment. After all, did he not deserve this kingdom? He should be the one seated upon the throne, commanding the armies of the world’s most powerful kingdom. Instead he has been cheated by some _child_ , a naive whelp who has yet to learn the ways of the world. Kill or be killed, he says! Burn it all down and take what is left! Those who do not survive are not meant to live and serve! Yet what does he find? Sargon sitting by seeking peaceful solutions and ideals, more concerned with the state of his citizens than that of his empire. Under him, surely it will come falling down piece by piece.

Unless he sees to it that he takes back what is rightfully his that is. And he fully intends to do so. All he needs to do is take back his weapon and cut the false king down, put him on his knees before him and slice him apart until he is nothing more than a bloody smear across the stone floor. Or perhaps he will be more sentimental, as his counterpart has been. Perhaps he will tear his head from his shoulders and stick it on a pike – right next to _his_ throne.

But now is not the time.

He has a mission – one that must be completed without raising the suspicions of his rival if possible. He forces a heavy breath through his nostrils, regaining his composure and watching his surroundings for only a moment longer before leaping forward onto an exposed beam. He hears muttering of _what was that?_ and the scuffing of boot leather against the floor and he pulls himself up. He balances there, taking one careful step after the other, being sure as to not make any unnecessary movements, or more importantly noise. After some pointless searching, the foes beneath give up the patrol and return back to their idle chatter, suspicions once again lowered.

He continues forth, grateful with each creak of the wood he creeps upon that it does not shatter under his weight. Perhaps, he decides once he reaches his destination, he does have some luck on his side.

Glancing back towards the only threats present, he finds them still oblivious to his presence and he drops down from his perch above. His fingertips ache as he digs them into the stone pillar that rest beside his previous residence, slowly dropping one by one down its carved façade before coming to rest with a soft grunt upon the ground. The guards still take no notice of him. He might laugh at their incompetence if the whole thing did not infuriate him so. Instead a sharp exhale of air rushes through his nose and a deep frown etches itself onto his features.

Another moment and he might snap. As it is, allowing such failure to remain unpunished bothers him terribly, resting on his mind like an itch that he cannot scratch. His head begins to ache.

Cautiously, he steps towards the throne before him, looking back only once to see if he has been noticed, before setting a hand lightly upon the arm of the seat. As his hand runs down its polished surface he traces a finger through the stone as it rises and falls. His short time alive before had never granted him access to his rightful throne; it had been something of a dream, but decidedly not a dream all at once. Though he had never seen it with his own eyes or felt the cool stone beneath him as he lorded over a kingdom, he knew it to be a thing of reality. A thing he had experienced secondhand through the life of his other half. To experience it now, in the flesh, is what he has always deserved.

He continues his admiration for a while longer, in something of a trance as thoughts of victory and revenge course through his mind like water passing violently through rapids. The spell is only broken when, with some annoyance, his touch meets crumbling stone. Once more, he is reminded of the ruin the palace is still under and tears his hand away from the sight as if it has burned his flesh. He sneers, cursing the Vizier and his army silently and finally returns to the task at hand.

Moving quickly, he begins his search. To his rival’s credit, he has not displayed the Daggertail like some trophy. Such a thing would be a mockery of its splendor and perhaps worse, it would be a mockery of his very character. If not displayed though, he wonders where the Prince of Persia would keep such a treasure. Something inside him screams that it is here, that the sentimental fool is just _that_ predictable. Another part of him aches, though not with the anxiety that his intuition may be incorrect, but instead it aches with some unknown force that tells every fiber of his being that his weapon is fated to be there.

It is not until his third sweep of the area that he begins to wonder if his intuition has steered him in the wrong direction. No signs of his precious blade are to be found, no loose stones in the floor, no secret panels. The area seems void of anything and if he was not so busy trying to ignore the rapidly quickening pace of his heartbeat, he might congratulate his rival for his surprisingly pragmatic view of their past relationship.

Instead he leans forward, his mind overflowing with a plethora of thoughts as he tries to discern where the Daggertail could possibly be. The palace is a maze of rooms and hallways. The possibilities are almost endless. Shaking, both in anger and something akin to fear, he catches himself onto the left armrest of the throne.

It shifts. His breath catches in his throat.

Making sure to be as silent as possible, he gives the stone a small push. Again it moves beneath him. The stone should be solid, carved from a single stone; there should be nothing to shift beneath his weight.

Digging his fingers beneath the heavy stone, he pulls upwards and reveals a gaping hollow beneath the false top. Inside, sitting curled like some viper in the shadows, sits the gleaming metal spikes of his Daggertail. The relief that washes over him does nothing to calm the pace of his heart, rather it feels as if it has increases tenfold and it _burns_. It is as if he has gone deaf to the world around him and he swears that he can hear the blade whispering to him like a fervent lover for him to take it in his grasp. He does not hesitate to comply.

He sets the stone aside quickly and reaches into the darkness eagerly, tangling his hands into the mass of blades without fear. They dig into his flesh and he lets out a long hiss of pain as they break through the flesh in places and blood begins to flow across his skin like small rivers.

As he continues to gather up the slithering weapon, it dawns on him that he has begun to make too much noise. In his excitement, he has completely thrown his stealthy approach out the window. Shortly after this realization is when he notices the fast approaching sound of footsteps charging up the steps nearby.

He cannot be seen. Not willing to waste anymore time standing by like a fool, he uses the cloth sash that hangs loosely from his hips to hide his treasure safely away, protecting himself from any further damage it might cause and slinging it upon his back. There is no use standing by and killing these men, they will only alert the rest of the palace and perhaps Sargon himself, a risk he is not willing to take. So instead he runs forward, pushing his body up and back onto the same pillar he had entered in.

“You!” The shout of a guard startles him and he nearly loses his grip. “Stop right there!”

So much for not being seen.

He will have to be quick it seems. He doubts the guards have gotten a good look at him yet and it is impossible for them to have seen his face when he is already up so high. With great speed, he begins to mimic the same path he had entered in reverse, being careful not to let his nerves get the best of him when this small victory is so near. As he dashes forward and back through the hole above the large doorway, he can hear the guards struggling to push them open and continue their pursuit. It seems that his fantastic luck has worn out there though and more guards poor down the halls like a tidal wave, heading towards him with weapons drawn.

He has no time to fight them and his weapon is still not properly his own. He will have no time to risk going out the way he came in. As the guards run past him from below, he jumps forward and lands with a _thud_ on the ground below in front of a window. The wounds in his hands sting furiously.

Behind him, he hears the sounds of a weapon being drawn and turns with impressive speed, grasping onto the blade of the sword in front of him with his bare hand before his enemy has a chance to swing. The metal bites into his flesh and it takes no more than a second before it has sliced into him, but he does not let go. With a rasping growl, he sends his foot forward, kicking into the guard’s stomach and sending him falling backwards to the ground. The blade pulls itself free of his grasp and he lets out a cry like that of a feral animal.

In front of him, his vision begins to spin. He begins to feel nauseous. Taking only a moment to shake away the feeling and clear his vision, he propels himself through the open window and to freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i) I’m going to keep an ongoing and long story very short, but recently, I have been having major family issues that have lead to some pretty serious life changes. Alongside this, I just recently lost my dog, Lulu Belle. It’s been an incredibly hard start to 2019 and has made writing a last priority in my mind. I’m trying to ease myself into it again though and finally got around to asking my friend to edit some chapters... so here we are! I hope you enjoyed and I’ll try not to take as long with the next update.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A helping hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter TWs: Hand Injuries, Mild Sexual Jokes, Jokes Containing Animal Death.

Memories flash through his head like sparks, fleeting and sudden. Despite their brief visits, they leave their mark, burning into him so intensely that it feels like he is being torn apart. Somewhere outside of the noise that fills his head, he can hear the fussing of a familiar voice and too soft fingers touching his arm and willing him to hold still. The burning in his hands has not stopped though and while he recalls that this pain is far from the worst he has ever experienced, it seems to be far more intense than anything he can now recall.

This human body was not built for battle. In it he will surely fall.

The hands are on him again, tugging and grabbing.

He opens his eyes and lets a furious growl roar past his lips.

Azar does not pause in her work, if anything she seems to work faster. Beside her are all assortments of bottles and plants. She is spotted in blood, smears raking their way down her clothes and across her face. His blood, he reasons as he finally lowers his gaze to his injured hands. His right hand is littered with cuts, while his left bears a wound that feels far more gruesome than it probably actually is. It bleeds heavily regardless.

"What happened to you?" Azar snaps, rubbing some unknown liquid into the gash. He cannot tell if he is screaming, but when the stars fade from his eyes his chest heaves and his throat burns. She runs her hand through his hair in some vain attempt to calm him.

She does not press him for an answer, despite her tone, and while she works, he tries his best to come back to his senses. The memories are still flashing before him; bursts of images, while other details remain in the background like smoke.

He remembers running through the streets. Remembers hearing the palace guards sounding the alarm. He cannot remember how he found his way back here. He does not remember stumbling through the door, but he does recall tearing up the uneven floorboards and stashing away his prize. He does not recall how he made it to the bed and he most certainly does not recall Azar finding him in this sorry state.

She finally ties a bandage around his hand, wrapping it until no blood seeps through the white cloth. As the pain begins to ebb, his mind slowly begins to clear and he finds he is finally able to focus without the thoughts becoming a mess of webs. He hisses slightly when she pours another liquid over his other hand, "That hurts."

"Perhaps next time you will think before getting yourself into whatever mess caused this then." She sounds like a worried mother reprimanding an ill-behaved child. Another memory tugs at his mind: another face replaces hers, a different voice, and he is suddenly much smaller. He shakes his head sharply. They vanish. "Tell me. What happened?"

"I fell." He lies. He is tired and if he looks anything like he sounds, he is sure Azar is aware of this. "In my panic, I grabbed onto something. Must have been sharp."

It is a bad lie and when she locks eyes with him, he can see that she does not believe him. She has seen these wounds before; she knows the mark of a sword on flesh and the mark of a climbing mistake. He expects her to say something, to ask him where he has been and why he was attacked. She says nothing, only nods and says, "You were unconscious when I found you. Seems you had some foresight before doing so though. Your hand was already bound."

He hums. The pain is distant now. Not gone, but easily pushed aside and that allows for exhaustion to push forward.

"You fainted from the pain, not from blood loss." She sits back, wiping at a stain of blood on her cheek – it only spreads it about more. After a moment, she grabs a cloth and wipes it across her face and then her hands. "The next time I find you dying, I won't offer my services for free."

"Believe me," he mutters, one side of his face pressed against the mattress, "I am shocked that you are not holding out your hands for coin now."

She looks at him, eyes glaring, but lips betraying her amusement with a small smile. She moves forward, cloth still in hand, and begins to clean the blood from his skin. "I thought a man so lucky to be alive might be more grateful."

"Oh, I am grateful." He says, sucking in a breath when the feeling on the cool cloth presses against his cheek. "Grateful to my own abilities, that is. If you're going to go on about your theistic ideals—"

"I meant that you should be grateful to me. Though perhaps you should be more respectful to the Divine." She snaps – cutting him off with such irritation that he flinches back. He grunts when she scrubs some blood away more harshly than necessary. "If you did, you might not find yourself in these situations."

He reaches up and places his hand atop hers, disregarding the flair of pain that surges up his arms as the pressure digs the cloth into the still open wounds. She stops, glancing curiously at him until he curls his aching fingers around her small hands and guides them away from his flesh. "Must you do that?"

"Are you going to do it yourself?" She says, pushing him away and once more pressing the damp fabric to his face. She has questioned his distaste for water more than once and he has no desires to have this conversation again. When he says nothing, she continues, "I won't have a patient of mine getting an infection just because he is too stubborn to bathe."

He snorts, but says nothing to argue otherwise. After all, in a sense she is correct, though she has no idea the circumstances which bring about his stubbornness, making it more one born of survival than something simply from spite. He must admit, the smell of dried blood does get old after some time though and a small part of him appreciates her efforts despite that irritation.

"Where did you fall from?" Again, her eyes are filled with that knowledge that he idid not/i fall. There is something smug hidden in the edges of her question. It threatens to spill over, but she controls it until the only real evidence one can see is the way her golden brown eyes pierce into him. It makes his stomach churn.

"A rooftop." He answers. "What does it matter?"

She shrugs, finally moving away from him. "I am only curious."

"Keep your curiosities to yourself." He mutters as she grasps onto the handle of the bucket that rests on the table next to him. She responds by splashing some of the lukewarm substance onto his head with an irritated glare. He hisses and a shiver works its way down his back. Running a hand angrily through his white locks earns him nothing but a snicker from his hostess.

As she pads away, he regards her with something of annoyance, scrunching his face up in a manner similar to that of an angry child. Again, she responds with a snicker, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips and she drops to her knees and begins to scrub at the marks of blood that pattern the wooden floors. Affronted, he finds himself hoping the stains have already set in.

"I am glad you're alright."

Her words make him freeze and he finds that he has to repeat the phrase to himself several times just to be sure that he has understood her correctly. Her voice had been so quiet and filled with something he had never heard from her before, or at least he had never heard it with such sincerity. When he finally determines that he has indeed heard her right, all he is able to manage is a wary, "You are?"

"I am." She confirms. "Who else would do the cleaning for me if you had died?"

He rolls his eyes. "And I thought we might be having a moment."

She laughs and falls back slightly, taking a seat and resting her arms upon her knees. It fills the room so thoroughly that he is absolutely shocked she is capable of such sounds. When she finally stops, her chest still twitches with the threat of further merriment and it makes her voice shake as she speaks, "I am only joking!"

"Well then, at least be sure they are funny next time, won't you?" He says, fully intending to remove that silly look from her face, but if anything her grin widens. "Would you stop looking at me like that?"

"Oh, come now. I really am glad you're okay." She tilts her head towards him and once more begins to scrub. "And not just for cleaning."

A sharp snort of air bursts from his nose. "How noble of you."

"Oh fine. If it was such a terrible joke, then you tell me one." She says as she rolls her eyes in a dramatic fashion. "Don't look so surprised."

"Jokes are meant to have punch lines, you know." He chides, settling back against the thin cushions behind him. The tiniest bit of triumph fills his chest when she finds his words biting enough to scrunch her nose. Like his words have left a bad taste in her mouth. "What did the libido-driven wife say when her husband asked if they should eat or have sex?"

She frowns. "Are you always so boorish?"

"You wanted a joke and this is the first one that came to mind." He offers, a smooth smile working onto his face like silk. "Tell me, what did she say?"

Resigned to his ill-begotten manners, she leans back onto the palms of her hands once more. The sun that pours through the open window catches her irises, making them flash specks of yellows and oranges as they move slowly about the room. She is searching for answers, hoping to find them amongst her potions and dried plants, but they both know they will not offer what she seeks. Just as he begins to grow impatient, his fingertips tapping rhythmically against the flesh of his stomach, she admits her defeat, "What did she say?"

"You can choose, but there is nary a crumb in the house." He finishes and she groans, falling back onto the floor as she tosses the wet rag towards his face. He catches it and throws it back; it lands on her stomach with a wet plop and she brushes it off with an irritated jerk of her arm. "Don't be so dramatic. It wasn't so bad."

"It was awful." She says, shifting to rest on her elbows so that she can meet his gaze. "Did I laugh? No. Did I smile? No."

"Ah, but it got a reaction out of you regardless." He says, "If you ask me, it has done its intended job."

She laughs, lips quirking to one side in a manner that makes it very clear she is trying her hardest to keep the sound from escaping. When it does regardless, she lifts a hand of her mouth and clamps it firmly across her face, stifling the noise before it can further betray her amusement. He laughs at her expense, "So terrible admitting that I'm right?"

She rolls her eyes.

At that, they fall back into silence, though the air between them suddenly seems just a bit less tense. He finds himself watching her as she moves back to her duties cleaning up his mess from the previous night. A strange surge of emotions fills the pit of his stomach and he digs his nails into the point of origin, willing away the strange thing like a persistent insect. It does nothing to suppress it, only added pain to the strange feeling – it sat there like a stone, unmoving as the river's rapids rush furiously past it.

"Thank you." The words left a sour taste on his tongue, though the feeling in his stomach seemed to ebb slightly when she turned back to him, eyes soft and brow furrowed. "Don't make me say it again. I find it hard enough to admit you saved my life once before."

"You are welcome, Merikh."

The feeling dissipates and he nods, thankful to her for not boasting about his momentary weakness, or commenting about his strange behavior. He is more thankful that the strange thing is gone altogether, much preferring to never experience it again altogether and even more so preferring to never utter such a sincere acknowledgement to another living creature. He decides to blame his wounds on the whole ordeal and lays back down, hissing slightly as the skin around the gashes in his hands shift with him.

Signaled by his mutters of distress, Azar once more moves to his side, taking the bandaged appendages in her petite grasp and examining them carefully. Strangely, her cool touch alleviates some of the pain, easing the heat that had come with the surge of agony. He swallows and attempts to pull his hands from her hold, but she only tightens her embrace.

"Must you do that?" He says, his usual biting tone hushed and a strange tightness in his throat. "I am fine."

"I am only making sure." She replies, finally taking a seat on the cot. The straw beneath the cloth cracks and shifts with her, only stopping when she stills herself. "A man wishes to teach his donkey to stop chewing on things. To do so, he stops giving him food—"

"What are you going on about?" He cuts her off, but she only glares at him in response.

"Let me finish." She snaps. "To do so, he stops giving him food and later the donkey dies of hunger. The man, distraught, says, 'What a disaster! Just when I teach him not to chew, he goes and dies on me!'"

He frowns, narrowing his eyes and watching her with a baffled expression, "Was that a _joke/i >? That was worse than mine!"_

__

__

"I thought you might like it." She says, releasing her hold on him. "And it distracted you long enough for me to do my work."

"That wasn't a joke. It was a travesty." He objects, slowly flexing his stiff fingers. Azar slaps at the back of his hand lightly to stop him and he laughs at her annoyance. "Fine, fine. You win. Though my joke was funnier."

She is grinning now, snickers pushing through her fingers as she presses them again to her lips. "Your joke was vulgar! Honestly, do you always speak so boldly in front of women?"

"I imagine you would be offended if I didn't." He shrugs, finding he cannot push back his own smile. Her laughter stops when he says that, but from behind the wall of her hands, he can still see the smile stretched across her features. She likes that, he realizes, his stomach once more feeling the drop of a stone as he realizes this conversation has become so _amiable_. It is a strange and sudden feeling, one that comes with the realization that he is _enjoying_ the girl's normally unwelcome company. "Don't get used to this though. I'm still as stubbornly impolite as always."

She tilts her head from side to side, lips pursed in thought before she concedes, "Now, we couldn't have it any other way. Could we?"

A knock answers her, rasping three times at the wooden door across the room. Azar stands, leaving him with his spiraling thought as he tries to assess exactly what has just occurred between them. Pleasantries have thus far been reserved for deception in his short existence and the whole thing leaves him confused in ways he has not been since he first began to stir within the darkness of Sargon's mind. He does not like it.

Mind still spinning, he is only half aware of Azar sliding the bolt of the door free from its latch, allowing the door to open and the hot breeze of the afternoon air to pour through the opening, drenching his body in sticky, unpleasant heat that seems to make the burning in his hands return.

Sneering, he turns to meet the gaze of whoever has unwittingly caused him such discomfort, only to find that the person in question stands out of the path of his gaze, obscuring their identity from him. Instead, all he sees is Azar's back and he takes note of the way her shoulders have tensed and the way her rich, brown flesh has become spotted with goose bumps.

Curiosity gets the better of him and he carefully pushes himself up off the mattress, ignoring the protest from his wounded flesh. Alerted to his movement, she turns back to glance at him. Something in her gaze tells him that something is very wrong. Almost as if she can hear his thoughts, she steps aside – making room for the stranger outside to step past her and into the room.

His heart sinks as the figure finally steps into view, and then begins to rapidly speed up. He feels as if he is going to be ill.

Before him stands none other than the former Prince of Persia, back straight with confidence only royalty can afford and blue eyes dark with something he cannot identify. He resists the urge to run, telling himself that this has nothing to do with him. This is only coincidence. He has no reason to panic.

The look Azar is giving him from behind the royal tells him otherwise.

Taking a step forward, boots scraping above the very floor that hides the demon's precious stolen treasure, Sargon lets a hand fall to the hilt of his sword.

"I think we need to talk."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i) The sources of the jokes told are from Andy Simmons's in the April 2016 copy of Reader's Digest, 'What's the Actual 'Oldest' Joke in the Book?', and 'Roman Social History: A Sourcebook' by Tim G. Parkin and Arther John.
> 
> ii) I had the question of why Farah and the Prince do not appear more often in this story and if they will in the future. The answer is that they will be in the story more/Farah will be a major character, but this story is not their story. This story focuses on The Dark Prince and Azar, though there is going to be a found family element between Merikh, Sargon, and Farah. Again though, this is not their story - it's Merikh's. I do plan to write stories about my favorite prince and princess in the future, but it's just a heads up about this story in particular.


End file.
